


Vesuvia's Story

by Rinari7



Series: Koreth and Vera [9]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Charr (Guild Wars), F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinari7/pseuds/Rinari7
Summary: The demise of a soldier is the demise of a warband, sometimes. The demise of a warband is the fault of a soldier, sometimes. Sometimes, it's both. And what of the traitor?
Relationships: Warband Relationships
Series: Koreth and Vera [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/478408





	1. The Raid

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is... a bit different. Once upon a time, I wondered if Vera would try her hand at writing, at imagining what might have happened, had Koreth been there for Shadow's demise, had she been honest with herself...  
> It started as kind of a joke interaction with another roleplayer's attempt at starting a roleplay publishing house (tentative title: "Shades of Gray") and then I ended up actually starting something. It's Vera's story, really, a what-if, a could-have-been.  
> Most names have been changed, but it's probably not too hard to guess if you've read other parts in the series, and I think this stands alone as well.
> 
> I probably won't finish this, but I still like what exists enough to put it up here.

Vesuvia was grateful for the shade the small tree provided her as she watched waves of heat rise from the Ascalonian plains below where she perched on a small rock outcrop.

The flash of orange-ish-brown fur blended in well with the dry, brown grass that stretched out in front of the female—easy to miss if you didn't have sharp eyes. But that was why they'd made Vesi, as her bandmates liked to call her, the lookout, and the other their scout.

_ That's my cue _ , and she leaped to the ground, sprinting back towards the camp.

“Serani incoming! Get ready!”

Her words sparked a flurry of activity in the camp. Those sitting around the campfire stood, brushing dust and bits of grass out of their fur and arming themselves if they had cast their weapon belts aside to sit more comfortably. A few emerged from the three round brown canvas tents the soldiers shared. Vesuvia noted with a mixture of smugness and a twinge of something she refused to admit was anger that Kalvia and Rajjen emerged from a tent together, her short-cropped mane standing up at odd angles and his longer, darker one a tangled mess with a touch of red liquid to match his red pelt. Kalvia did love blood.

The band was lined up in a semicircle opposite Legionnaire Rajjen Strongshade when Serani Shadeprint arrived, her breath heavy but even as she slowed to a jog and saluted.

“Reporting in, sir. The pathway looks clear, no sign of traps, no sign of an ambush. Both cliffs deserted. I checked the surrounding area as well. We should have a clear path to their camp, which seems relatively deserted. Only one female and two guards.”

Rajjen nodded, once. He only ever nodded once.

“Any idea of the whereabouts of the rest?”

“Tracks led away from their camp, opposite direction. My best guess is that they're attacking the base we set up close to the volcano, though the team there should be able to hold their own. Both Ravage and Deceit are stationed there, with more than enough good fighters and scouts.”

“All right, then we're going in. Quick mission, destroy their supplies, take the female with us if we can, kill the guards. I'll take point. Serani, you can rest. Vesuvia, Kalvia, Maroth, you're with me. Rinexus, Jarn, Tauron, you'll stay and watch the camp. Any questions?”

A chorus of “no, sirs” rang out as everyone saluted. It really was straightforward, and the band marched out—Maroth spinning one of his many precious daggers idly in one paw. It made Vesi grin.

Just to be on the safe side, the group stuck to the side of the path, not marching in plain sight. The first indication Vesuvia had that something wasn't right was Maroth's murmur, “Are the hairs on the scruff of your neck rising, too?”

She looked around, the shadows of the foliage shifting. It was windy, but curiously still where they walked below the branches. Vesuvia opened her mouth to mention it to Rajjen—Maroth's intuition was rarely off, after all—when shots rang out from above.

Even Flame assassins—the assassins, at least—weren't stupid enough to use fire in a forest in this weather.

The small Ash crew did well, separating, taking cover. Vesuvia's pistols were out of their holsters within two seconds, and she was peering up into the foliage. The autumn leaves provided a good cover for most fur types, but she didn't have the surname “Shadeeye” for nothing.

A dagger glinted, once, on its journey, and she knew it was Maroth's—the partial scream, partial grunt confirmed the blade had hit its mark.

Her bullets found their targets, too. One slumped down onto the branch he was perched on, his skull hitting the wood with an audible crack. The second, well, she and Maroth would later argue over whose kill it was as he tumbled out of the tree, his hard landing driving the blade deeper into the hollow above his collarbone, dark red blood staining the black fur as it seeped out from the bullet hole in his forehead.

Even Kalvia managed to take out the last of the four-man sniper team, though her first shot went wide. Ranged combat had never been her strong point.

It was as Vesuvia was digging her claws into the bark to retrieve Maroth's dagger, currently buried in the chest of a Flame Charr with dull eyes slumped against the trunk of the tree he was in, that Kalvia swore, loudly.

“Flaming fuck. Rajjen's dead.”

Vesi dug her claws further into the tree, feeling sap leaking out onto the fur on her fingertips, her chest heaving as she panted.  _ The dagger. _ Right, she was there for the dagger. Her training kicked in, suppressing the shock.  _ Act now, mourn later. _

“Hide the body under a bush or something, then, and we can pick it up on the way back to give him a proper funeral pyre.” Maroth voiced what she was planning to. Only he was quicker. Usually only quicker half the time.

Vesuvia wiped the bloody dagger off on the fur of its victim, and tossed it down, giving it just the right amount of spin like Maroth had showed her, years ago. “Catch.”

He slipped it deftly into its sheath before lifting Rajjen's legs—not shying his gaze away from the dark red stain on the red-orange fur, a stain that was mirrored on the ground they lifted their legionnaire off of.

Both Vesuvia and Kalvia turned their heads away as the dead weight was deposited under a bush.

“Everyone else okay?” Ever business-like, Maroth's tone was even. Vesuvia didn't trust her voice if she stopped to think as the adrenaline wore off.

A stinging sensation in one arm made itself known, slowly, and she looked down to see a hole ripped in her leather sleeve, and an ache in her bicep as she flexed it. “Damn, I did catch a slug.”

She shrugged off that shoulder of her jacket. Her claws were useful, and she grimaced, gritting her teeth as she dug the bullet out out, hissing as a fresh wave of blood and pain spilled over her arm.

Maroth was already wielding a bandage, which he tied firmly with deft fingers. He glanced at Kalvia. “And you?”

“I don't see why you don't wear metal armor.” She gestured to several dents in her chestplate, and shrugged. “I'm fine.”

“It makes too much noise. I don't know why Rajjen allows it. That was probably what gave us away.” It wasn't really true, but Vesuvia liked Serani, and didn't want to pin it on the scout. And she might have been angry that it was Kalvia, the newest recruit, who had been receiving far too much of Rajjen's attention lately.  _ No, I'm not that petty. Everything I said is true. _

“Don't you try to pin this on me.” Kalvia's voice had a snarl in it. “You've never liked me, not since I joined the warband, but that doesn't mean you can blame me for this.”

“Shut it, both of you.” Maroth's voice was harsh as he tied off the bandage on Vesuvia's arm. “We have a mission to complete. Now let's go.”

The rest of their march was in silence, Maroth taking the lead, constantly scanning their surroundings. Vesuvia still smarted from his rebuke. Kalvia hefted her sword, her dark expression boding ill for the next adversary to cross her path.

“Mar, you wanna look for the female?” Vesuvia kept her voice low as they sighted the Flame camp, which for all intents and purposes looked relatively deserted, as Serani had said. “You're the diplomatic guy.”

“She might prefer another female.” His voice was a low rumble that tickled her ears pleasantly.

“Right. Well, then Kalvia's out.”

The latter's whiskers twitched, but she didn't disagree.

“All right then, Vesi, you try to get the female to come with, then go keep watch. Give me your explosives, and I'll set up a few mines to greet the rest when they come back—assuming we didn't just run into them. Kalvia, I trust you can take care of the guards.”

“That's what I'm here for.” The ex-Blood-Legion soldier lifted her chin.

“All right, then we'll head in. Kalvia, take point.” And the three moved into the camp.

The guard lounging by the campfire barely had time to grab his axe and shield before Kalvia was on him, and he struggled to block her strikes—counterattack was out of the question. Leaving her comrade -in-arms to occupy him—though Kalvia wouldn't be occupied with him for long, she was sure—Vesuvia slipped into the first of the tents.

It was by no means anything she hadn't seen many times before—Charr have little shame in certain matters, after all—but it wasn't what she had expected. The male was still lumbering up, sluggishly, the haze of lust over him evident, whereas the female, a thin, mousy thing, still crouched—hunched, doubled over—on all fours, her tail held high to the side, facing away from Vesuvia.

A flinch was the only reaction from the female as the Ash soldier's shot rang out and the guard slumped to the ground, and she held herself stiffly, as if braced for the same to happen to her.

“Hey, what's your name?” Vesuvia tried to keep her voice soft. Serani was the friendly, motherly one, not her, but she'd seen some of the traumatized Flame females come in. You had to treat them like delicate glass in the beginning, if you didn't want to end up with a useless, cracked shell.

“Cerina.” If you weren't listening, you would have missed the soft whisper. “Cerina Silverstrike.”

“Hey, Cerina, we're going to get you out of here, okay? Set you free. You don't have to work for Flame anymore.” No reaction, so she continued, in the same voice. “I need you to stand up and get dressed, and come with me. Can you run?”

“I—I don't think very far.”

“We'll be walking, mostly. But in case we need to run, I just need to know you could. Do you want me to help you get dressed again?”

“No, thank you.”

“I'll wait for you outside, then.”

“The other guard was in there with the female,” she murmured quietly to Kalvia as the tent flap fell closed behind her. The other nodded, once, and moved to the perimeter of the camp to keep watch.

A quick check made sure the other tents were empty, though she did slash the bedrolls and the tents and pocketed whatever coin or valuables she found. Maroth was setting up a neat minefield, arranging leaves over the explosives.

  
  


The young female emerged from the tent clad in a simple, undyed shift, freezing as she spotted Maroth, her gaze flitting from the brown Ash male to the dead Flame guard on the ground and back.

“Hey, it's all right. He's with us. He won't hurt you.” Vesi reached for her paw.

“Watch out for the mines. Let's go.” Maroth left to fetch Kalvia from the opposite side of the camp as Vesuvia tugged gently on Cerina's paw.

“Let's go, like he said.”

The young female stumbled slightly before she found her feet, still seeming dazed. “He was nice to me.”

“Who was? Don't step on those leaves.”

“Renvahrik. He was dead by the campfire. He was nice to me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Surprisingly little hesitance trembled in her voice; instead, resignation kept it even.

“Well, first we're going to get you some food and let you rest. Hopefully you'll join us. We let females do whatever they want—fight if they want to.”

“I don't want to fight.”

“Then we'll find something else for you to do.”

Vesuvia didn't miss the slight cringe.

“Not—what you're thinking. You can farm, or—or become a blacksmith, or work as a logger.”

“Oh.” Her hunched shoulders relaxed a little.

The walk back was silent, too, slow and cautious. Cerina was constantly looking around. She reminded Vesuvia of a small bird, curious, trying to look at everything, making sure there was nothing threatening nearby.

It became slower once Kalvia and Maroth retrieved the legionnaire's body, Kalvia lifting him from underneath his arms, Maroth grabbing his ankles. Cerina stiffened once again at the sight of the carnage, eyeing the dead bodies warily.

“They all look the same.” Quietly. “Is he one of yours?”

“Yes. We lost someone today, too.” Vesuvia tried to keep her voice steady. “Did you know any of the rest?”

“No.” Her eyes promised she was far too frightened to lie.

Rinexus met them at the perimeter of the camp. “Is she the female Serani mentioned?”

“Yes.” Vesi squeezed Cerina's paw.

The muscled calico agent nodded, taking care to keep his eyes away from Cerina. “Pleased to have you here. Do you have a name?”

“Cerina Silverstrike.”

“Cerina, why don't you follow me? I'll take you to Serani. She'll take care of you.”

With a hesitant glance back at Vesuvia, the Flame female let go and followed Rinexus. She slowed as she saw him entering one of their tents, but still followed.

_ At least she's good about following orders. _ The thought was terrible, as Vesuvia knew all too well precisely why the young Goldie was obedient, but Vesi was primarily pragmatic. The previous female they'd tried to extract had been practically out of her mind, running away from them and towards the column of smoke rising from the Flame Citadel, shaking and screaming. They'd had to leave her.

Jarn and Tauron approached. The identical twins' faces bore different expressions of concern—Jarn's mouth was twisted in a grimace, Tauron's brows scrunched together.

“The legionnaire?”

“How is he?”

Kalvia snarled, loudly, as she and Maroth gently lowered the body to the ground. “Pretty fucking dead, otherwise we wouldn't be bringing him back horizontal!”

The twins shrank back, one's expression of horror now indistinguishable from the other's.

“Just shut up, Kalvia!” Vesuvia didn't mean to shout, not really, but they were all wound up, and the often brutish fighter was only making it worse. “You could try being a little nicer, you know! You're not the only one who's upset!”

“Shut it, both of you!” Rinexus' voice was low, threatening, as he padded back towards the group. “That new female's already shaking like a leaf, and we're not in secure territory. Keep your voices fucking down.”

“Right.”

“Brevet Rinexus, I think you're in charge until we get back to base.” She could hear the melancholy in Mar's voice, but she wasn't sure whether or not the others could. “What are your orders, sir?”


	2. The Legionnaire's Funeral

The warband was assembled in front of the funeral pyre—well, not quite assembled. Standing alone or in pairs, some staring stoically at the smoke swirling upwards into the sky, some with their faces downcast. Serani, Jarn, and Tauron stood in a group of three, Serani resting her head against Tauron's shoulder, Jarn's arm slung over his brother's shoulders to stroke Serani's mane, Tauron's arm around his brother's waist.

Rinexus was on his own, head bowed, with his fingers linked behind his neck. Kalvia was also alone, gazing at the burning body with a fierceness that showed in curl of her lip and the wrinkled ridges of her muzzle and brow.

Maroth stood next to Vesuvia, with only their fingers intertwined. She had never been the touchy-feely type, but the shimmer of liquid in her eyes betrayed her emotions to him.

As for Maroth himself, he wasn't really looking at anything, more occupied with his thoughts.

Most were melancholy.  _ The troop and the legions lost a good leader and soldier. _ Equal parts charismatic diplomat, stalwart soldier, and cunning strategist, Rajjen Strongshade had seemed practically born to be a leader.  _ Took care of his soldiers, made sure they all came back safely. _ The wretched irony of that thought was not lost on him.

Some, which he refused to dwell on, were of relief. He hadn't always seen eye-to-eye with the legionnaire, and before Kalvia's arrival in the warband, he had occasionally sensed a quiet rivalry for Vesuvia's affections. Maroth almost imperceptibly tightened his grip on her fingers.

And some of his thoughts were not concerned with their deceased legionnaire at all, his eyes wandering to the warband's current acting legionnaire. Rinexus had turned away from the pyre, pacing: five slow steps towards the lake, five slow steps back towards the camp, scuffing his heels in the grass. Maroth assumed the other's thoughts ran in a similar vein to his.

_ Rinexus is a good soldier. _ Calm, intelligent—studious, even. Conscientious, a strategist. But charismatic or authoritative he was not. He possessed none of Rajjen's ability to intimidate, and only some of his silver tongue, physical prowess in battle, and ability to think on his feet—to which the warband owed its success as equally as it was owed to any strategy.

In addition, the brevet tended to brood, to doubt himself, to take time they didn't always have to double-check every detail and make plans for every contingency he could think of. Even now, Maroth could see the worry lines on his face, his eyebrows drawn together, the way his tongue swiped the sides of his teeth when he was deep in thought.

And yet, none other was remotely suitable.

An outsider would have no clue how they worked. Their unique dynamic would not be appreciated, or taken advantage of, and their usefulness would disappear.

And there was no decent candidate inside the warband, either. Kalvia was far too hot-headed, too blunt, too  _ Blood _ to lead a group of spies, though she was slowly learning. Serani was more at home out in the wilds on her own than directing a warband from point, and she tried to avoid confrontations as much as possible—the mediator for their little group. Vesuvia noticed the little details, and had a decent head on her shoulders, but she was too impulsive, prone to outbursts, not commanding at all. Jarn and Tauron's ability to imitate each other and instinctively move in tune was an asset to the warband, one that would be removed if one became legionnaire—and, by necessity, the other didn't. It would break up one of the band's dynamic duos.

As for himself— _ I wouldn't make a good legionnaire _ .  _ I don't want that responsibility. I'm not made for giving orders. _

The truth was, he could think of no one to replace their legionnaire—the glue that had held them together, that made this patchwork band work like a well-oiled machine.

Slowly, he released his grip on Vesuvia's fingers. She crossed her arms over her chest and bowed her head, and he turned towards the shore of the lake, spinning one of his daggers in his paw. The idle habit failed to offer any relief or distraction.


	3. The Battle for Leadership

Vesuvia tapped her claws against her leg, a nervous habit she had picked up from Maroth. Her gaze was glued to the two combatants in the middle of the arena, the blur of blonde against flashes of white and black and brown—and blood. A good deal of blood.

Rinexus and Kalvia separated momentarily, circling each other warily—Kalvia brandishing her sword and shield, Rinexus wielding a sword and dagger, the latter bleeding from several wounds. He leaped at a small opening in her defense, cleanly twisting her sword out of his way only to be met with her shield, and they were again dancing that fatal dance, slice, block, counter, parry, hit. Kalvia had an advantage in size, in her metal armor (which Rinexus wasn't used to, and hence had opted not to wear), and in sheer instinct.

It was like watching a skale rip chunks off of a cub, piece by piece, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

_ Fuck you, Kalvia. May you burn slow and hot when your time comes. _ Vesuvia clenched her fist, feeling her claws dig into her palms, remembering precisely how it had come to this. It was easier to focus on than the present, but no less fury-inducing.

_ “You're not a fit leader.” A declaration, after their second mission under newly-promoted Legionnaire Rinexus Shadeaim, as they settled back into the barracks in one of the spread-out, seemingly innocuous settlements that made up Ash Legion HQ. _

_ “Excuse me?” His tone was calm as he turned to gaze evenly at Kalvia. “If you thought we should have employed a different strategy, you should have spoken up then.” _

_ “That's not what I mean. I mean you, personally, are not fit to lead this warband.” The entire warband had stopped, ears and tails twitching uneasily. Looking back, Vesuvia remembered this moment as the one in which she saw a dozen expressions flit across Rinexus' face in a split second, and resignation settle in his eyes. _

_ “I'm willing to hear any critique of my leadership style.” _

_ “It's you.” Blunt as ever. “Do I have to spell it out for you? You. Are. Not. Fit. To Lead. Us. Your planning and strategizing is all well and good, but you can't lead us on the battlefield, can't improvise when things go wrong and we need new orders right now—hell, if Maroth and I had missed those grenadiers, or delayed a split second, the entire warband would have been toast and you know it.” _

_ “I'm not Rajjen. I never will be. But the Centurion considered me fit to lead Shade.” Rinexus folded his arms across his chest. “Is this a challenge, Kalvia?” _

_ The blonde female looked around at the warband, from Vesuvia's scowl to Maroth and Serani's carefully schooled stoic expressions to Jarn and Tauron meeting her eyes, flicking their gazes guiltily towards Rinexus for the briefest of moments. It was a split-second decision, Vesuvia knew that just as she knew Maroth had been in love with her since she dragged him into the lake the first summer she entered his fahrar, and she had never hated the warrior more. _

_ “Yes, Legionnaire, it is a challenge.” _

“ _ You really believe you'd be a better legionnaire?” _

“ _ I certainly can't do any worse than you.” Again, she looked around for support. Rinexus's gaze traveled the assembled as well. Jarn and Tauron carefully studied the ground, while Serani clenched her jaw and Maroth tapped his claws on his leg, his carefully neutral expression barely holding. The last mission truly had been touch-and-go. _

_ But that didn't mean that Kalvia should be legionnaire. _

_ “I think you can do worse than I have, soldier. But name your date. I'll put in the paperwork.” His voice carried a note of finality, of heaviness—authority coming out only after it was too late to help him. Turning his back on the warband, he continued to transfer the contents of his pack into the locker. _

Kalvia deftly twisted Rinexus' dagger aside and sent it skittering across the floor of the arena. He took a chance and leapt after it, but she was prepared for him to do just that. She rammed her shield into his head from the side, sending him stumbling to the ground. Her sword sunk into the base of his neck, blood spurting up, painting the blade a solid red and dotting her armor.

Serani whimpered and Vesuvia turned her back on the fight. “You didn't have to mortally wound him, you curse-blasted cunt.” It wasn't truly fair. Such fights were normally to the death—but Rinexus didn't deserve to die. The dull, wet thud behind her told her told her Kalvia had at least cleanly beheaded their previous leader. Of course, the higher-ups still had to ratify the promotion, but it a was a formality: the legionnaire is dead, long live the legionnaire.

Vesuvia took several steps away from the group, her heart pounding. Nauseous.  _ Fuck you. Burn you. You won't be better than Rinexus, and you killed my friend. I won't let you become legionnaire. You don't deserve it. _

In a split-second decision, she took her water canister out of the satchel hanging from her shoulder. She stared at it for one heartbeat, two, before digging in her pocket for the vial she hoped she wouldn't need, the one she hadn't actually intended to use when she had slipped it into her jacket pocket before heading to the arena.

She tipped the odorless, tasteless poison into the liquid, sliding the empty vial back into her pocket and swirling the canister around as she took slow, measured steps back towards the rest of her warband and the scene of the carnage. Vesuvia clenched her teeth at the sight of the corpse before bowing her head to Kalvia.

“Legionnaire, I'm sure you're thirsty.” And she held the canister of liquid out towards her new leader.


	4. The Leaving

Vesuvia curled up into a smaller ball on her bunk. Her eyes were closed, her eyelids relaxed, but she couldn't sleep, her ears flicking back and forth almost constantly, and she had to actively prevent her tail from doing the same. Every clang, every whisper caused her to start and gasp, sure they were meant for her.

The rest of the warband, save Maroth and Kalvia, was in their own bunks nearby, snoring softly in the case of Jarn and Tauron. Serani was quiet as usual— _ was her eye open just a slit? No, it must have been my imagination. _

Reluctantly, Vesi flopped onto her stomach and sighed. As much as she wished she could, she knew she wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.

Her sigh was mirrored by someone the next bunk, and Vesuvia, startled, turned her head, her ears flattened back.

“Vesi, what's wrong?” Serani's whisper came, quiet and low, as the female swiped a paw over her face and muzzle sleepily, dragging herself up into a half-sitting position. “You're twitchy and I can't sleep right when you're tossing an' turning an'… twitching.”

“I--” Her throat closed up.  _ Think, think! Of course you can't tell her the truth. _ Vesuvia was a good liar only at the best of times, and it was far easier to lie to the enemy than to one of your closest friends—one of your band.  _ “Everyone in the unit needs to be on the same page, and little details you don't think are important might mean something to someone else. So you tell your warband everything, you hear me?” _ Her primus' voice echoed in her head.

“Is it Kalvia?” Sleepiness still softened the edges of Serani's words, but it made Vesuvia tense just the same.

“No—I mean yes! I mean...” She could hear the agitation in her own voice, the tremble, the high pitch, the squeak, and clamped her muzzle shut, scooting towards the wall, looking, watching, to see if she had awakened anyone else.

Yawning, Serani stood, padded over to her bandmate's bunk, and sat down beside her, not waiting for an invitation. “Maroth said she'd be okay. He's already given her the antidote, you know. It's only a matter of time before she'll be fine again.”

“I—I know.” The smaller, gray-furred female exhaled slowly, leaning her head back against the wall.

Serani laid one orange-brown paw on Vesi's shoulder. “I know you guys didn't get along, but it's good to see you're still worried about her. She'd appreciate that. And she means well.”

“Meaning well apparently means meaning to slaughter Rinexus!” Vesuvia only remembered to lower her voice just in time, though her fury, her desperation and helplessness still screamed out through the sheer intensity of her tone.

“He wasn't fighting to spare her, either, you know.” Vesuvia still heard the hitch in Serani's voice, allowed the other to lay an arm around her, to draw her in so that her head was leaning on the larger female. Serani needed someone to be strong for. “He obviously poisoned his blades.”

Vesuvia felt more than heard her own breath hitch again, and she forced herself to exhale slowly. “Obviously.” She forced the words over her lips, feeling herself tense as she did so. She wanted to scream, wanted to rip something apart, wanted to run into the sickbay and thrust Kalvia's sword into her own neck like the other had to Rinexus.  _ If I'm going to suffer through this, then at least let it be for something! _

But she did none of those things, instead resting her head on Serani's shoulder, feeling Serani stroking her arm gently, before the other's paw stilled and her eyes gradually closed.

Vesuvia waited several minutes before carefully, softly removing Serani's arm from around her and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She kept her actions smooth as she dressed, adjusting her belt with her weapons around her waist, and her steps soft as she crept through the dormitory, careful not to wake anyone—though some glared at her as she walked by. She knew with a sinking heart that probably most of the bunkroom had overheard Serani's conversation with her.  _ Who am I kidding? These are Ash Legion. _

A figure stepped to the side, out of the way of the door, as she swung it outwards. She recognized him immediately.

He seized her forearm as the door swung shut behind her, his grip firm, his claws slightly extended. “Hey, Mar, if you want a tryst, there are at least three more pleasant ways I can think of right now to get me to come out with you.” Her tone was teasing, relief flooding her. This would be good for her. He was always able to clear her mind completely.

“I'm not in the mood for that.” His words held a snarl hidden just below the surface, and she stilled before she was pulled along with him, stumbling. His claws scraped along her arm.

“What's wrong?” Her voice trembled. She had never seen him like this before—not with her.  _ He can't know. _ If for no other reason than it would mean—nothing she was willing to face, to even think about. Despite the fact that he carried a water canister in his other paw.

He only turned to face her once they were a short distance away from the small settlement, the moonlight that found its way through the canopy dancing a pattern of light and dark on his face as the leaves shifted in the breeze.

Her bandmate—partner, lover—stared at her for several moments, silently. She tensed, shuddered, drew together. “Maroth?”

His voice trembled with fury when he did speak again. “Did you poison her?”

“I—Maroth, you know I—I--” It was an exercise in futility, as her voice broke.

“Don't you think the warband has lost enough? Without being torn apart by treachery? Now, tell me--” He snarled, digging his claws into her arm. A small, quiet cry escaped her—it hurt—and he pulled her closer, his green eyes glinting as he stared into hers. “Did you poison her?”

She pulled her lips up into a snarl, intending to protest his accusation as vehemently as she knew how. “Kalvia obviously didn't think the warband had already lost enough!” tumbled out instead.

She stumbled several steps back as he shoved her away. “She is your warbandmate! What part of 'kill the fucking  _ enemy _ ' do you not understand?”

“And what part of 'do what's best for the whole' do  _ you _ not understand?” Vesuvia was sheathing and unsheathing her claws, swallowing hard.

“You and your fucking impulsiveness! You and your flaming own moral code and misguided justice!” He laid a paw on his dagger, flexing his paw on the handle.

“You and your blind sense of duty! You never cared before!” She gripped her pistol, but kept it in its holster. Anger kept her eyes dry, but her throat tightened just the same. “You never cared when I took initiative to plant mines that I wasn't ordered to! When I made sure to get those Kodan away from the operation even though it screwed up the schedule!”

Maroth turned his head to the side, gripping his dagger in its sheath as if his life depended on it. Vesi grabbed his horn, wrenching his head back to look her in the eyes. “You know that Kalvia is the worst possible charr we could have as legionnaire. And you never gave a shit about my 'impulsiveness' when we stole the fahrar reports--”

“That was different! You know damn well--”

“--or when I pulled you into the lake with me!”

Both quieted, only heaving breathing and the soft buzz of the fireflies and the rustling of the leaves whispering through the night.

She could feel rather than hear the emotions in his voice, the ones he so valiantly tried to hide—grief, confusion, resolve. “That has nothing to do with anything. We have our laws and our structures for a reason. I'll have to notify the centurion and the legionnaire--”

“Any law that values brawn over intelligence and aptitude cannot possibly be right! Maroth, please. You know I'm right.” She pulled him closer, touching her nose to his, words spilling out of her in a desperate attempt to convince him, to not lose him. “You can't possibly think she will be better than Rinexus was. She was never meant for Ash Legion.”

He nudged her nose in response, though she could tell it was more out of habit than anything else right now.  _ No, I need you here, right now, with me. _

His tone remained resolute, but it was soft. “Vesi—Vesuvia, that doesn't have to mean anything. You don't know what kind of legionnaire she'll be; you can't discredit her before you've seen her in charge. And I'd be remiss if I didn't report--”

“Maroth, please, just drop it.” Vesuvia nuzzled his cheek, lowering her head to nip at his neck—something that never failed to make him purr, to tilt his head and lick along her jawline to her ears. “She's not dead, is she?”

He headbutted her in the shoulder, sending her stumbling back into the trunk of a tree. His dagger was at her throat in two seconds; reflexively, she drew her pistol and leveled it at him.

“I would be completely within the right to kill you right now.”

“Wouldn't that be your precious legionnaire's job?” She spit the words at him. “Let me guess. You're going to become her little bitch, just like she was Rajjen's.”

“I will never be anyone's 'bitch'.” He put more pressure on the blade, and blood began to trickle out, matting her fur. “Not yours, either.”

“I won't do it again.” The slight, gray female swallowed, staring him directly in the eyes. “Now get your fucking blade off me.”

“And give me one good reason why I—why any of us should trust you again?”

She blinked, flicked her ears.  _ I can't. Not one you'll accept. _ Her eyes, she was sure, told him so.

“I thought as much.” He snorted. His tone held disgust, but a flash in his eyes told her he was hurt—deeply, beyond what she had even assumed he was capable of feeling.

She inhaled sharply. Maroth scowled, lowering the dagger a fraction. “I hate you for putting me in this position. Put your pistol down and I'll take you in.”

_ He'll actually see me executed, too. _ That was what would happen to her under the authorities, no doubts about it.

She grabbed the forearm pressed to the side of her neck, lifted it, and ducked under it, kicking at his knee as she let it go. He sliced down, leaving a gash across her shoulders, and grabbed her wrist, twisting it. She dropped her pistol with a cry.

Her quick blow to the side of his head with her free paw, just behind his ears, sent him stumbling. He had taught her well. His next move—pull her arm in, turn, slice—was slightly sluggish and easy to avoid. She drew her second pistol, and a repeated blow with the added weight behind it—he attempted to avoid it, but wasn't able to completely—made him slump.

His dagger left a gash in her thigh as she stumbled, slowly lowering his weight to the ground. The slight rise and fall of his chest quelled her momentary panic.

She turned his limp form over, holstering both her pistols, and simply stared. Her mind refused to form coherent thoughts, just a sense of helplessness, grief, affection despite it all. Regret, even.

She brushed a few stray hairs back into place in his short-cropped mohawk, and then fled the scene, her eyes watering as her paws carried her away from the village, her leg twingeing in protest.


	5. The Journey Away

They were taught how to lie properly towards the end of their education in the fahrar, shortly after they'd made their decision to join Ash Legion instead of Iron, immediately after Maroth, Rajjen, and Vesuvia were transferred from the Nolan fahrar to one belonging to Ash Legion, near the Shiverpeaks.

“ _ Listen up, cubs!” Their primus pointed at Maroth, who had opened his mouth to protest. “And you can shaddup, you're cubs until I say you aren't!” _

_ Thirteen-year-old Vesi nudged him with her shoulder, suppressing a snicker as he closed his muzzle slowly, scowling. _

“ _ Information is your currency and your weapon. The more you know that your enemy doesn't, the better. Best of all is if you feed them false information, and capitalize on that. Forging documents, faking tracks and troop movements—all great. But the most basic way to spread misinformation is lying. _

_ You  _ **_will_ ** _ treat this like any other weapon at your disposal—with care, to be used only when necessary, and only to be directed at the enemy. You understand?” _

_ The muscled veteran glared at his charges, who surrounded him sitting or reclining in a semicircle on the crisp summer grass. Heads bobbed. It apparently wasn't good enough for the scarred old soldier. _

“ _ I asked you greenhorns a question, and I expect you to answer verbally! And if you don't get it, I'll make sure you stay in the fahrar learning it until you're thirty! Now, do you understand?” _

_ “Yes, sir!”, “Understood, sir!”, and similar responses blended into a chorus. _

“ _ I can't understand a fucking word you're saying! Are you soldiers or a group of fucking crows? Again,  _ **_do_ ** _ you understand?” _

_ “Sir,  _ **_yes, sir!_ ** _ ” The response was loud and clear as the group of young Charr sat up straight, and the primus chuckled. _

“ _ That's what I wanna hear! Now, you got a coupla tricks to telling a lie. First is delivery. You gotta be calm. You gotta act like you believe it. If you're nervous, people aren't gonna buy it. That means ears, tail, claws, whiskers, the whole kit 'n' caboodle. Voice should be even. No squeaking or squealin' like a little piglet. You can't be stiff, either. Nobody trusts a wooden board. You gotta be relaxed, easy. _

_ “Second is content. Know what you're gonna say before you're gonna say it. No blathering bullshit. Know your stuff, check your details. Nothing happening on the 96 _ _ th _ _ day of Scion or Bloodbrains coming up with something new and intelligent.” _

_ Rajjen snorted. Serani snickered. Vesivia watched Maroth's whiskers twitch out of the corner of her eye. _

“ _ Also, lex parsimoniae. The simplest explanation is the best one, the one most people are gonna believe. Have details ready, offer a few of 'em, so it doesn't sound like you're being vague, but don't make things unnecessarily complicated or detailed. _

“ _ Last, if y'can, put some truth in the tale. Might be details, might be half of your backstory, might be most of what you're saying except for that one key bit. Means less you have to remember, more stuff they can cross-check without you having to do a thing. Helps keep the risk of detection down.” _

_ “Now, tell me a lie, in turn, left to right. And if I don't believe you, keep talking until I do.” _

Vesuvia had been second in line, but it took her the longest. She had twitched, and had stammered, and finally had sworn at the primus in frustration.  _ “Don't put this kit undercover,”  _ he'd finally said with a smirk, and moved on. To Maroth, it had seemed like second nature, the false words easily sliding over his tongue, causing the primus to raise his eyebrows ever-so-slightly and move immediately to the next in line.

  
  


Sometimes, she envied him that, so terribly much. To be able to change his manner so easily. To act as if he believed whatever he was saying. To slip in and out of another's skin as such a thing were perfectly natural. She had always had too many nervous tics she couldn't stop.

  
  


She envied him that as she stared at the border guard and couldn't keep her tail from flipping from side to side frantically. The line to cross the border into the Shiverpeaks just outside of Butcher's Block inched forwards, and she fought to regulate her breathing.  _ What're you gonna say? Heading to Hoelbrak. Why? Orders—no, no papers. I'm delivering a message, was on my way anyways. Damnit, I don't have orders, I don't have the flaming papers! Keep it together, keep calm, keep it plausible, keep it simple. Why am I traveling anywa-- _

“Papers?” The guard's bored voice interrupted her hectic thoughts, and she swallowed, staring at him.

“Papers? Orders?” He asked again. “Permission to cross the border?”

“I—I don't have any.” Fear constricted her throat, and her planned lie fled from her thoughts immediately.

His brows furrowed. “Gladium?”

“I—ah... I... guess I am.” She ducked her head, cringing, scowling. He had offered her an out, but she hated to hear those words come over her tongue.  _ Gladium. It's the best title you'll get now. Get used to it. _

“It's harder to get out than get back in, you know? You'll be double- and triple-checked if you want to come back this way again.”

“Yes, sir.” She inhaled, slowly.  _ This is it. _ Quietly: “I know that very well.”

“All right.” He gestured for her to move on, and demanded of the next in line: “Papers?”

  
  


She envied him as she warmed herself at the fire, the disgusting sound of the other caravan guards slurping their soup irritating her to no end, causing her ears to flutter like a butterfly's wings. At least it prevented them from freezing.

“Hey, what's-your-name. Rivenne, was it? Why aren't you in a group like most Charr are? Hard for a loner out here.”

She turned to stare at the heavily tattooed Norn trader whose caravan she was defending on its way southwest. There was no malice in his gaze, no suspicion, only curiosity. A dozen lies flashed through her mind— _ They all became Branded. I wasn't born in the Legions. I'm on a solo mission. _ But they all refused to cross her tongue, as she slowly spoke, not entirely sure what she herself was saying until she heard it.

“I—I'm a gladium. They're all as good as dead to me.”

“What happened?”

“I can't tell you. I don't want to talk about it.”

And she drew her fur blanket more tightly around herself, to shield herself from the silent snowflakes drifting down that bit into your skin the moment they touched it, much like the hushed words and half-heard murmurs from the other side of the fire.

“Wonder what happened.”

“You think she did something?”

“Maybe they did something.”

She settled herself down on her side, with her back turned to group.

“Strange Charr. Moody little thing,” her current employer remarked. She flattened her ears and tried her best to sink into the welcome oblivion of sleep.

  
  


She envied Maroth as she spoke to person after person in Lion's Arch looking for some way to sustain herself.

Yes, she had experience in constructing explosives, in working with poisons, in designing guns, in raiding and pillaging and swimming and digging in the sand (she was getting desperate when the swashbuckling Norn with a feather in his cap and a glass of rum in his hand propositioned her). No, she had no issues with other races. (Why would she? She wasn't part of the Legions anymore. She had no orders or superiors to fight under, no land to fight over.) Yes, she was a hard worker, with a sharp eye and deft claws.

“But are you trustworthy? It's mighty hard to come by good help these days, who won't nick your stuff the moment your back is turned.”

“Yes, I'm trustworthy.” She stood straight, tried to look them in the eye. “What about me gives you the impression I wouldn't be trustworthy? We Charr are taught to fall in line the moment we come out of the womb. I haven't done anything out of line in my life.”

It might have been the over-emphasis, her damn tail that she couldn't keep from twitching, or maybe her ears that insisted on flicking around as if listening for danger, but one possible employer after another looked her in the eye for a few seconds, spit at her feet with a “Bullshit,” and left.

She tried to relax, every time, and every time it came a little easier, applying those principles her primus had tried to explain, but when they asked about her past, why she was here, where she was before, she would clam up again, and slowly stammer out something before the other party turned and walked the other way.

  
  


She just remembered to envy him as she walked into a bar in a remote corner of Divinity's Reach, The Dead End.  _ How very fitting, _ was the first thought to flash across her mind,  _ coming here to see how I can sell my skills to the highest bidder—or rather any bidder. _

A dark-haired man with a raven perched on his shoulder stood and extended a hand, as if he had been waiting for her.

He was quiet, confident, persuasive—somehow a more intense, human version of Maroth. It hurt, though she couldn't have told you the source of the pain that spread through her chest millimeter by slow, agonizing millimeter. It distracted her from being nervous, from being too caught up in her thoughts and fears. It allowed him to look in her eyes and see something other than fear and deception—sorrow, resolve, pain. It allowed her to recite her version of the truth without so much as a twitch of a whisker.

It gained her entrance to Badbh Catha, a group of mercenaries and spies that would be her livelihood, her acquaintances, “her” group for the next year—but never a home.

  
  


Slowly, she forgot to envy Maroth, as lying became no longer a weapon, but a tool, a necessity, and her primus' advice second nature. When telling falsehoods became something she still had to concentrate on, but not something that incited fear. When the masks became molded to skin, itchy and stiff, something she could no longer take off.

When she became a liar as well as a traitor, she avoided envying her partner—and Maroth would never be anything else to her, to matter how hard she tried—because she knew what it meant to lose yourself in the facade. And it hurt too much to wonder if, over so many years, so many missions, so many times pretending to cheerfully obey, that had been what had happened to him.


End file.
